


Affirmation on the 23rd Floor

by Annie D (scaramouche)



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Comment Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-25
Updated: 2010-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-06 17:10:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaramouche/pseuds/Annie%20D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes to Matt's rescue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affirmation on the 23rd Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle IX, prompts: adrenaline, sweat

“When I say duck, you _duck_!”

“I did duck!” Matt shouts back as he pushes his way through the splintered remains of a shelf. “I don’t know what it’s like for you on your planet, but here on Earth to duck means to _lower your head_, not fling yourself across the fucking room like fucking Rambo!”

John’s eyes are narrowed into angry slits as he steps forward to give Matt a hand stepping over the debris. “You knew I was coming, you knew this shit was going to go down, why’d you have to—”

“Oh, fuck you, John,” Matt snaps, shoving him away. John sways a little, and Matt has to deliberately look away to stop himself from giving in. Matt’s _angry_; he’s been angry for the past half hour, terrified for the three hours before that, and he’s not about to let his emotional momentum peter out before the message gets into John’s thick skull that he’s just not made for this shit.

“I told you to stay put with the others,” John says sharply. He’s leaning a little out the window now, face looking below as if he’s checking that the guy he just shot would be hanging there by his fingernails, only Matt’s pretty sure that getting a bullet in the head makes falling to death rather incongruous.

“I did!” Matt shouts. “I kept my head low, kept my phone hidden, everything! They separated me from the other hostages because they found out that _you_ were in the building and that painted a big fucking bulls-eye on my forehead!”

“So you’re blaming me, now?” John asks, a different sort of danger in his eyes now. “I just saved your sorry ass.”

“Thank you! Thank you for saving my sorry fucking ass!” Matt can’t seem to stop shouting. “Again! I don’t know if I have enough time in the world to thank you every single time this happens! Maybe I should just print Thank You Cards in bulk and throw them at you whenever the occasion comes up!”

John steps forward, looming deep into Matt’s personal space. Matt has to wince when he sees the red streaks on his chest and shoulder, jacket sleeves torn and the undershirt tattered in places to reveal skin stained with sweat and grime.

John takes Matt’s hands in his, calluses pressed tight around Matt’s fingers.

“You’re shaking,” John says.

“That’s because I’m normal,” Matt snaps, trying and failing to pull his hands away. “I’m normal, and you’re not, and you’re — shit you could’ve died you stupid fucking asshole I hate you so much!” And Matt surges up and kisses him, clumsy and furious, then pulling away almost immediately to spit dust from his mouth. “Ugh, gross.”

“You know I’m always going to come rescue you, right?” John asks. “That’s how it works.”

“I know!” Matt yells, not caring that he’s doing it right in John’s face. John merely looks at him, gaze cool and patient. Matt stares right back, and maybe some of whatever it is that keeps John levelheaded in these situations leaks into him and, after all those hours of running on nerves and adrenaline, something in Matt relaxes. “I know.”

“Come on,” John says, and he releases Matt’s hands to settle a palm behind his neck and pull in.

John’s voice is calm as ever, so Matt’s taken aback by the ferocity of the lips that meet his, insistent and pushing until their teeth click and it’s not so much sexy as it is desperate. John’s hands feel as huge as ever, the one on his neck curling blunt fingers into the skin below his ear and the other an insistent presence low on Matt’s back, fitting their bodies firmly together.

Matt’s licking deep into John’s mouth, and it’s the taste of concrete and blood that brings it home how many miracles he’s known in his life since meeting John. Matt feels like he should’ve used up a lifetime’s supply of luck by now, but here they are, still standing, still mostly in one piece each, and it just seems too impossible to be true.

“You taste like you crawled out of a garbage disposal,” Matt mutters when he pulls his mouth away.

“Yet you still want it,” John says, smug stupid bastard that he is, pushing Matt against the nearest convenient (and still-standing) wall before drawing his hands along Matt’s body.

“I know what you’re doing,” Matt says, looking down at where John’s running a palm down his chest. “I’m fine. Knee’s fine, too.”

“You sure?” John asks, pushing his thick fingers under Matt’s shirt. “Gotta be positive.”

“Just be fucking honest about what you want from me, okay,” Matt says firmly, glaring into John’s eyes, fingers gripping the familiar shape of John’s skull and taking care to avoid the drying line of red that’s trailing up to where his hairline should be.

John’s gaze goes laser sharp, and he presses his hips forward so there’s no misunderstanding what’s on the agenda right now.

Matt can feel his body already responding, craving John’s touch to pull him back from wherever it is he goes to when their world (_John_’s world) is too much – to remind him that there is a very good reason he puts up with all the shit he does.

“How long we got?” Matt asks.

“SWAT’s sweeping the floors one by one, last I checked,” John says, glancing at his watch. “I say we’ve got twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

Matt’s fingers are immediately on John’s belt and pulling. “Okay, come on. And let me do the driving, I don’t know where you’ve been.”


End file.
